


Pretty Dresses

by sparxwrites



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Dresses, Sexual Tension, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 20:32:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5942083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparxwrites/pseuds/sparxwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Parvis!” snaps Strife, the minute he catches sight of Parvis heading towards him out of the ruined temple they’ve turned into a home. “Where have you been, you’re ten minutes-” His words fail him, abruptly, when he realises what’sdifferent about Parvis this morning. “What- what are you- wearing?”</p><p>(In which Parvis is perfectly, cheerfully comfortable with wearing dresses, thank you very much - and there's nothing wrong with that, other than the fact Strife <i>cannot function</i> around him when he's wearing them.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Dresses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MindfulWrath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/gifts).



> so wrath made [this post](http://mindfulwrath.tumblr.com/post/138800953853) and i couldn't resist...

“Parvis!” snaps Strife, the minute he catches sight of Parvis heading towards him out of the ruined temple they’ve turned into a home. “Where have you been, you’re ten minutes-” His words fail him, abruptly, when he realises what’s _different_  about Parvis this morning. “What- what are you- _wearing_?”

Parvis, the little shit, bats his eyelashes and stares wide-eyed and innocent at Strife. “What do you-?” he asks, before blinking, and grinning. “Oh! This. You mean the dress” 

He smooths hands down the front of the sun dress he decided to wear today - a moderate sort of thing, the neckline framing his prominent collarbones and the pale line of his neck but running flat just above the level of his armpits. The hemline’s equally demure, a circle skirt that falls to just past his knees, showing off surprisingly shapely lower legs that are somehow even paler than his throat under the dark hair scattered across them. The fabric of the dress is a rich, heavy, expensive-looking thing, weighty enough that it barely sways in the mild breeze.

There’s really nothing objectionable about it at all - a first, for Parvis, who somehow manages to make _everything_  objectionable - other than the fact that it makes Strife’s jaw go just a little slack, and his usually eloquent tongue go numb.

“It’s- um, well.” Strife scrubs at the back of his neck with an open palm, blinking slowly and trying not to stare. He fails, spectacularly. There’s just _so much leg_  on display, and he’d never realised quite how _curvy_  Parvis was before, a skinny torso and thin hips but an even skinnier waist… and the way the neckline frames Parvis’ throat so beautifully, well. It makes him _ache_  to get his mouth on that pale skin, just to see how easily it bruises. “Well, Parvis-”

“Look! It’s Strife Solutions colours and everything.” The red’s possibly a shade too pale and bright, a little more candy-red than Strife’s frankly dour crimson, but that doesn’t seem to bother Parvis as he spins a little twirl, the dress lifting to mid-thigh.

Strife’s brain promptly short-circuits.

“So!” says Parvis, brightly, grin widening when he notices the slight part of Strife’s lips, how blown his pupils are. “What do you think? Do you like it? It’s not really my favourite - I look better in blue, royal blue, I’ve got a _lovely_ evening dress - but that’s not really appropriate for working, really.” He pouts, sticking his lower lip out full and shiny. “You’d probably just spill lava on it or something, silly Strifey!”

Swallowing hard, Strife tries very hard not to picture exactly _what_  Parvis looks like in a deep, royal blue evening gown - Silk? Satin? Maybe velvet, soft and figure-hugging and beaded with clear, glittering crystal and freshwater pearls around the neck, or… - and exhales slowly. “I mean, Parvis,” he says, choosing his words with care given how tongue-tied and clumsy he feels. “I’m not really sure _this_  is appropriate for work, not for- well. There’s oil, and lots of machinery for it to get caught in, and, and… especially since we’re going out mapping territory today…”

Parvis’ eyes narrow. “You’re not _discriminating_ , are you, Strifey?” he asks, slow and a little dangerous. “Xephos said a _lot_  of things to me before he sent me here. Okay, I didn’t listen to most of them, most of it was really boring and he talked for _ages_ \- but I’m _sure_  there was something about discrimination and it being illegal and equal rights, and maybe chopping your balls off with a sword-”

“I’m- no! Not discrimination, no, just- concerned you’re going to. To ruin the dress.” Strife frowns, drags a hand through his hair. “And you’re making up that thing with the sword and- and my genitals,” he adds, after a moment’s thought to kick his brain back into gear.

He and his species don’t have external testes, a fact Xephos knows very well - though not a fact he’s particularly inclined to share with Parvis.

“Am I, though?” asks Parvis, a teasing note to his voice. “Are you willing to risk it, Strifey?” When Strife says nothing, just pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, Parvis bounces excitedly, shimmies his hips a little. It makes the dress swish around his knees, clinging to his thighs, and Strife has to swallow hard and think about dog shit and other equally unpleasant things to stop his thoughts from straying. “Yes! I win again! A victory for Parvy-Parv and his awesome dress.”

Sighing, Strife tries to compose himself for the hundredth time, and fails. “It’s not- there was never a fight-” he tries, and then gives up. It’s not worth it - never worth it, when it comes to Parvis. “Just- just don’t get it caught in any moving parts or anything. Easy way to lose a limb if I ever saw one. Or any branches, or the teeth of any monsters, or-”

“Will do, Strifey!” says Parvis - before patting at his hip, and frowning. “Oh, my sword! If we’re going hunting in the forest, I should probably- be right back!” He turns and sprints back towards the house, skirt flicking up at the back with every bouncing step, flashing glimpses of smooth, milky thigh.

As soon as he’s disappeared inside, Strife stumbles backwards until he hits a tree, and then tilts his head back hard enough that it makes a hollow _thunk_  against the bark. Despite his reluctance to swear, he indulges himself in a quiet, murmured, “ _Fuck._ ” After all, he feels, the situation definitely calls for it - him and Parvis, and that dress, alone in the woods until nightfall?

It’s going to be a long, _long_ day. 


End file.
